Tomorrow Will Not Come
by IceraMyst
Summary: caretaker!Harry'delirious!Snape slash. When Severus comes home to await death after a confrontation, he doesn't expect to get saved by his greatest annoyance, or the problems this 'heroic act' will bring.


Disclaimer: Guess what. I'm not JKR, and am not claiming that I am.

Enjoy. And beware; it's rather funny.

* * *

The only sounds now in the usually crowded hall were the occasional owl hoot and cricket chirp floating in through the open window at the end, and the slow scraping and panting noises coming from the bloodied pile of robes making its way through the length. There were no paintings in this hall, a fact he both blessed and cursed—no busybodies to taunt or ridicule, but none to send for help, either. The gargoyle statue, just visible in the wavering candlelight, was so, so close... but, as he paused to catch his rasping, bubbling breath, utter despair came over him once more as he realized his fatal mistake.

_I'm not due back until tomorrow night_, he realized, _and Dumbledore would be in his rooms at three in the morning, not in his office._ He would die here, just yards away from salvation, to be discovered by the early risers of—oh god—Gryffindor tower. As if his whole life hadn't been a cruel joke, this would truly be the final nail in the coffin.

Of course, there would always be the possibility that the ever vigilant Filtch would find him, but it was a well-hidden fact that the man utterly loathed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (one of the few reasons he was allowed to stay on at the castle, Severus reflected grimly) and therefore his followers, including the one that lay inches from death in the hall. While he doubted the man would actively seek to further on his non-existence, it would not be beneath Filtch to simply walk by in ignorance. _Sadly, it would serve me right._

He focused the one eye not sealed shut with blood on the window, not sure whether the starlit darkness outside was comforting or not. The darker it was, the longer it would be before someone found him in this humiliating state, but also, the longer it would be before someone found him in any living state at all. He could not even cast a warming spell to ease his passage to the next world from the freezing hallway, as they had made sure to crush his wand hand straight off. Of course he knew some wand-less magic, but seeing as there was a lack of things to levitate or stun, it seemed little help to him now.

Even his potions, which could have restored him at least to a state that would allow him to pass on in his dungeons in peace, were gone, smashed truly accidentally by kicking feet, and then more with purpose for added cruelty once the crushed remains of his grandfather's vial brought the first cry past his lips. The glass had been the last possession remaining of the one family member he loved, and he could only watch helplessly amidst the blows as it was ground into the dust.

It seemed to him that the sky was lightening slightly, and he maneuvered himself into a sitting position against the wall, determined to not be as humiliated as he could. Severus estimated maybe ten minutes before he passed away, and at least the consciousness potion he had taken beforehand (as it was bad indeed to lose awareness before the Dark Lord) would assure him the ability to see it through to the end. To pass the time, he thought absently about what expression he should take on to be found in the morning: a scowl, defiant to the end? A smile, to shock those pesky Gryffindors? The smile was attempted, but only one side of his face would move, now, so no expression at all would have to do.

_Five minutes, I should think_, he decided, although truthfully, in this wavering, blood-loss state, he couldn't tell if three seconds or twelve hours had passed since he made his ten minute estimate. His limbs would not respond to requests, orders, or pleads, now, so he had no true way of checking. _Should I leave my eyes open, or closed?_ Closing them would seem like a sign of defeat, but with one eye closed anyway, he would appear, perhaps, to be winking, and that would never do.

"Professor Snape!"

The voice jostled him slightly and he opened his unblocked eye as best as he could, regarding the floating head of his least favorite student. _Of all the hallucinations I could possibly be having, Harry-Living-Potter would not be the one I would have chosen to appear before I die_, he thought absently. The head gained a body—_and why does a hallucination need an invisibility cloak, anyway?—_and crouched beside him, babbling something. Normally, he would have found this annoying, but Severus wasn't caring about much of anything at the moment.

_I wonder if visions can interact with other people. Maybe he's a ghost... no, I shouldn't wish that, Albus would be angry._ "Find... Pomfrey," he managed, trying not to wince too visibly as he felt a tooth move.

"I already contacted her," the voice said, or maybe it didn't, since it didn't sound like a Potter turn of phrase. Perhaps that was just the general idea, then. "Your face is a mess, Sn—sir," it continued. Severus decided it was beneath him to respond, or at least, too tiring to.

He did gasp slightly as silk smoothness encountered the cut that trailed from the center of his forehead to the other side of his cheek, the cause of the blood covering that side of his face. If he were to live, it would scar, magical assistance or not; as it was, it was simply the factor that wasn't allowing him to see his last few moments of life, as boring—or, in Potter's case, disturbing—as that sight may be. Now, however, the burning pain it was causing had subsided a bit, and some of the smoothest material he had had the pleasure of feeling was removing the blood from his face. With a faint jolt, he also realized that it was some of the most expensive.

"Potter," he said, feeling a fresh wave of pain from where a boot had caught him in the throat, "do you know... how much those cloaks... cost?"

The illusion gave him a now more visible look that plainly wondered at the Potion Master's sanity. _I suppose that I deserve that one, as well. _"So?"

And, for once in his life, brought on by severe blood loss, pain, and eminent demise, Severus had a brief, sudden moment of clarity in which he realized that the Boy-Who-Refused-to-Die did not mean "So?" as in, "So? I have plenty of money to spare, what does this matter?" but rather, "So?" as in, "What does money compare to your health and comfort?" He also realized that "So?" would have been the answer if he was placed here beside a wounded Weasley, or Minerva, or Draco, and that it would have meant the same thing each time. The boy actually cared. Severus lived a few moments more through sheer surprise, and then went back to existing on oxygen and sugars and amounts of trace metal like most living beings.

There was more talking, but it sounded so far away that he couldn't be bothered to care about it. He was warmer now—the damned fool boy had put the cloak over him, those stains were _never_ going to come out—and fairly content, the pain further away than it had been. This was often a bad sign in someone who expected to live, he mused, but as he did not, it was somewhat of a relief. When he could be bothered to pay attention, it was apparent that an older female had joined the bloody (or, as he thought about it, invisible) party and he wondered why he had bothered asking the Potter brat to find the healer. He was well enough versed in wounds to know he had no chance to survive whether he made his time or not.

The woman's voice uttered a spell and he was able to feel a brief bout of vertigo through the haze as he was turned, floating, onto his back. Scanning the sights before his eyes, he realized that he had never noticed that the stones comprising the ceiling had flecks of green in them. While normally he wouldn't care, he did pride himself in attention to details, and that one could have been useful at some point. He wondered if he should point this out to someone, but the rest of his mind silenced that thought quickly. It seemed to believe that he was going delirious. Severus had to agree.

Above him, the stones turned to the gray of Transfiguration hall, and even as his mind shut down he knew he had to tell someone that he wasn't going to make it to the infirmary. Pomfrey hadn't seen the blood, didn't know the extent of the damage. And yet, it was not her voice that called out for stopping, but another, younger one, one that it seemed he ought to know but could not place. The ceiling drifted away from him as he was set down, to be replaced with wide green eyes.

_Lily? How odd. What is she doing here?_ These eyes were filled with concern and possibly fear, an expression he had never really associated with Lily, and he wondered what was bothering her so. Perhaps it was guilt—was it James who had done this to him? It seemed a little excessive for him.

A voice called to have his hand held still, and slim fingers encircled the bruised and broken mess in, if he pretended a bit, a rather affectionate way. This surprised him a great deal as well. When Severus had been at Hogwarts, he had never partaken in any kind of romantic doings, at all. Whenever he had thought about it then, he just naturally assumed that there would be time for that after school and a Potions apprenticeship, and went on with life. Voldemort enlisted him the day before he graduated, and that was that.

While this handhold was not necessarily—or really, probably not—in a romantic sense, his lack of experimenting in the area left him without experience in the field of nonviolent touch as well. He was surprised to note that it felt rather comforting. Perhaps the school's rowdy teenagers actually did do it for other reasons than to annoy him.

"Take that ring off of him," snapped a brisk, efficient voice, and something she was doing must have been working, because he recognized the voice as belonging to the healing hall matron as well as comprehending the words. The receiver of the command complied, and Severus felt a brief pang. That was his family ring, in the hands of an unknown. A glance over only made his blood run colder.

"James…"

The reply back was firm. "_Harry._ Should I take off the bracelet, too?"

"No, dear, that's fine. Just don't loosen your grip."

Harry. How strange. He could vaguely recall seeing the boy earlier, but that seemed quite far away, so perhaps not. As it was, it just made him feel rather lucky to still be alive this long. Surely he had given Harry enough reason to kill him on sight, in his efforts to make sure he had no sway over the Boy Who Lived when Voldemort finally called in all of his sources. Maybe James's remark had been a personal comment rather than a name, but, then again, he would definitely not be living if it were James that had found him.

"That should do for now… up we go!" And, blast it, he was flying again. The gentle grip still stayed on his hand, holding it level and, if the twinges he was feeling were right, healing it as well. _That's strange… Lily didn't know any healing spells._ Severus frowned, finding that he was able to now. He was pretty sure that he had just figured out that it wasn't Lily, but maybe he had been thinking about something else at the time. This blood loss thing would have to go. He made a note to never get into his current state again.

His hand finished healing (or, at least, he could try to move it without agony) at roughly the same time as familiar white bedding rose up to meet him, and the flurry of motion over him increased. He could feel the reset of his femur, the great relief of breathing after the restoration of his lungs and ribs, a blue and vibrating pang as his loose teeth were reattached. Beyond that, and for some reason, more importantly, his hand was _still being held,_ as if someone cared about him, or was too bloody stupid to realize that they had already finished healing it.

A blood-restoring potion was pushed past his lips, and that seemed to be it. There was bruising, of course, and organ damage, but that could be fixed at a later date. He was too used to it for true emotional scarring, and while he'd have to be very careful for probably quite a long time, he could likely recover nearly completely. Severus was, in fact, alive.

Not for long, of course. Voldemort had meant to kill him, and he would be most unhappy when he discovered the man was not, in fact, dead. While the castle's wards could keep the Dark Lord away, there was no way Dumbledore could protect him from the students, several of which he had recognized at the beating—their initiation, in fact. The few remaining could certainly have their own initiations as the final removal of their Potions instructor.

_All those healing spells put to waste. A shame._

And he could not protect himself. A past headmaster had added a spell to the building after a political scare that made it so teachers _could not_ harm a student, no matter the circumstances, and Dumbledore could not alter it without removing protective spells long since layered on top of that one. Severus was going to die at the hand of The Man, killed by acne marked adolescents.

He heard a woman's voice curse over the lack of remaining potion, and supposed the last one he took was probably a sleeping draught, since he could no longer remember her name. Her noises faded off, leaving him alone and therefore greatly surprised when a voice near his ear spoke up.

"Professor, can I get you anything?" it asked.

_The hand-holder._ Severus thought about this for a bit. He was quite hungry, but food was best not taken with blood restorer. Liquids were fine, however.

"Water," he managed to say. He couldn't sense any movement from his companion, nor could he seem to open his eyes to check on this, so presumably the speaker was waiting for something. "Please," he added after some reflection.

_That_ brought a startled noise, a curse, and a wet _splat_ sound of water hitting the ground. Another moment brought a gentle, rather hesitant touch to his hair. "Can you sit up on your own? Oh… that's a stupid question, isn't it." The touch moved to the back of his head, raising it up, and Severus had the startling revelation that he loved his hair being handled. It wasn't something he had had much room to discover in the past, and was nothing, he reflected, he would be able to act on in the future, but was certainly an idea to store for angsting over later if he ran out of topics with which to do so.

A glass was held to his mouth and he managed a swallow before choking. Severus heard a quickly muttered "Sorry" and the touch was relocated to support his shoulders, which worked much better. _Really,_ he supposed, _I could get used to this touch thing, especially if I only have about a day or so to enjoy it._ He drank until the substance was gone, mostly out of prolonged touch desire rather than actual thirst, and reluctantly gave up both. _Well, maybe not._

"Do you want any more? Or anything else?"

Severus thought about this for awhile. "Why?" No, why wasn't the right question. Some people would have gotten what he meant from that, but this person seemed rather dull—reminded him a bit of Potter, really. Which was strange, because he didn't know any particularly bad potters, or really, any at all, and wasn't it hatters that had gotten the, the, the known-for-craziness? Dullness didn't really mean craziness, certainly, or the reverse, so…

_Why can't I think?_

_You're delirious, remember? Blood-loss, exhaustion, mixture of two contradictory potions, pain-high?_

_Oh._

"Madame Pomfrey asked me to take care of anything you need, Professor."

_Perhaps he or she isn't that dull after all._ Something was still bugging him, however.

"Are you a hatter?"

There was a pause. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't think I heard you correctly. Can you repeat that?" Whoever it was had leaned forward, close enough that he could feel their breath on his cheek. For some reason, this was fine, except the smell was slightly bothersome; not bad, but odd. His thoughts were scattering again, losing themselves in the sleep potion. _Cursed thing. Did she _ask_ if I wanted to sleep?_

Breath. Severus reached up to adjust the position of whoever it was, too tired to ask them to move, and ended up with a handful of hair for his efforts. The breathing certainly stopped, which proved this venture to be successful, and ignoring the voice currently screaming "_Harry Potter! You're cuddling Harry Potter!"_ in a most annoying fashion in his mind, Severus let the sleep draught take him completely.

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Please inform me of any glaring mistakes, and look for an update soon :) 


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